


The Captain's Tale

by daviesroyal



Series: Phoenix Rising [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Angel: the Series, Doctor Who, Grimm (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV), Torchwood
Genre: All of the severe tagging happens in the first story, Assassins, Completely screwing every canon mentioned, I highly doubt this will make any sense if you haven't read the first two stories, Multi, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Space Pirates, Space Politics, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2018-12-07 03:29:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11614941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daviesroyal/pseuds/daviesroyal
Summary: Seven Fyrebirds settled back down on Earth to change the world. One set out for the stars to change the universe.This is the story of Captain Isabella Stark, on her long journey home.





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This starts immediately after Readjusting, Chapter 3.  
> Edit: I've made a few changes, mostly because I don't have a beta to catch these things before I post and make a fool of myself.

**1987**

It’ll be almost a decade before most of us are together again. Tony and I settled back into MIT with only a few slip-ups, managing to graduate this spring. I know Rhodey is still worried about the two of us, and I think Tony wants to tell him what really happened sometimes, but it’s not just our secret to tell. Maybe some day, he’ll know.

Donna’s the best at acting normal right now, but she had two years of practice hiding with absolutely no safety net. Now that three of us are back, it’s even easier for her.

Lindsey has the most trouble. He’s only been back for a few months, granted, but the rest of us had someone to come back to in our own times. The only people Lindsey cares about right now are us, and staying with a family that tolerates him at best and hates him at worst chafes at his restraint. He wants nothing more than to leave them behind and make his own way. We all of us have only been able to rely on each other for so long that it makes sense, but it would raise too many red flags.

I visit him for a while, stay in Tulsa until he’s better at masks and regains enough of his equilibrium to con his way into higher education. Lindsey, along with Grant and Ianto, are the best of us at long cons. The rest of us either didn’t have the patience or had problems with authority that made staying undercover rather difficult. Not that the others didn’t have such problems; they were just better at focusing on the eventual destruction of the mark instead of the more immediate, attractive options.

Lindsey and Donna start university. Tony lives up the playboy image. Me? I leave the planet.

* * *

******1988**

The others still know where I am. They know what I’m feeling, can always talk to me if they need to. I’ve taken the Phoenix ship _(the ninth Fyrebird, for all intents and purposes, so that’s what I’ve called it),_ and if there’s a distress signal from Earth, no matter where I am in time or space, the _Fyrebird_ will get it.

But my future isn’t as strong on Earth as theirs is right now, and someone needs to keep track of what’s going on beyond one little planet. Between SHIELD and UNIT and Torchwood and the Doctor, even the Slayer and her council, with three Fyrebirds on hand if things get really complicated, Earth is well-protected.

Something big is coming. _(The twenty-first century is when everything changes.)_ I can prime the Shadow Proclamation for a treaty, make myself known to the Nova Corps, spread the legend of the Fyrebirds and stop threats before they reach Earth. I can do this for my family.

_(We have to be ready.)_

* * *

**1990**

It’s been two years since I left Earth. Both the Shadow Proclamation and the Nova Corps know who I am, though they don’t know about the rest of the Fyrebirds yet. As far as most of the universe is concerned, the _Fyrebird_ and her captain aren’t connected to the actual Fyrebird myth I’ve spread. Time travel has benefits; I’ve been able to plant bits and pieces of information throughout the centuries, and let everyone else fill in the blanks.

Currently, I’m in Knowhere. The severed head of a Celestial, turned into a mining facility, and home to the Collector. I have no intention of joining his collection, at any point in time, but his fascination with unique species will guarantee more rumors of the Fyrebirds. He’s been around a long time; he’ll know more of the legend than anyone.

He’s also telepathic, so I’ll have to be extra-vigilant about my mental shields. It wouldn’t do to burn the guy out if he tries to read my mind.

_To say nothing of him finding out you’re seven times less unique than he thought,_ Tony points out. His mental voice, while distracted, is clear and strong. Distance means nothing within our neural network.

_It’ll be fine,_ I say soothingly. The _Fyrebird_ is docked in one of the ports closest to the museum, just in case I need to make a discrete escape.  _He should know better than to even try._

_Should or does?_ Lindsey asks sarcastically.  _Because that makes a difference. You should learn about loopholes sometime._

_Oh, did you decide on a career, then?_ Donna asks.

_Law seems like fun,_ Lindsey says.  _And it would be nice to have someone who knows what they’re doing in that area._

_If I have a bunch of people talking to me, he’s going to notice,_ I say. The others subside with a huff, and I step into the museum.

A Krylorian steps up to me, fear etched in every line of her body. Curiously, it’s not me she’s afraid of. “Did you have an appointment with my master?”

A slave, then. Tamping down my distaste, I answer her politely. “No. But I suspect he will wish to see me regardless. Tell him the Phoenix is here.”

Her eyes widen, and she rushes off to find her ‘master.’ I can feel the disgust of the others before they wish me luck and pretend not to exist. Just in time, too, as Taneleer Tivan approaches.

“A Fyrebird,” he breathes, performing an elaborate bow. I’m not surprised he guessed correctly, but I’m a little concerned he thinks I’m not the only one. “Is your ship nearby?”

“It is,” I answer carefully. I can feel him probing carefully at the edges of my shields, and decide to nip that in the bud. My defenses are like whips of fire, lashing out at the intruder and forcing him to back off or be caught in a web of flame. Tivan flinches, but recovers quickly.

“My apologies,” he says. “I wonder if you might consider―”

“I will never be part of your collection,” I cut him off, voice flat and expressionless to hide my anger. “Nor will my ship. I simply came because you have a wealth of information, and I wanted to know how much of that information pertained to me and mine.”

“Very well,” Tivan says after a pause. He knows better than to push. “Let me show you the Chronicles.”

That’s new.

The Chronicles turn out to be scrolls and books that compile the bits and pieces of the Fyrebird legend I’ve let slip over the centuries. Everything that the universe knows about us is in those texts, and Tivan has collected them all.

There’s no confirmed number of Fyrebirds, nothing other than what I’ve told people, but it’s all here. On paper. “Is this preserved in another format?” I ask absently.

“Everything is digitally reproduced, just in case,” Tivan answers. “I have the originals here, but many people made copies, and the Library has both paper and digital reproductions. Most of the information is available on the Hypernet, but the complete originals belong to me.”

I ignore the boasting, examine every inch of the Chronicles, and relax. “The Library has complete reproductions, you say?”

“That’s correct,” Tavin says. “Of course, the originals…”

I tune him out again. I created this legend; I _am_ the original. “Thank you,” I interrupt. “For your time and your generosity. I’m afraid I can’t stay, but this is a lovely place you have here.”

It will be destroyed, eventually, by one of his slaves, but I don’t bother telling him that. If he can’t foresee a future that obvious, I’m certainly not going to enlighten him. I flash a small smile at the girl and leave, heading back to the _Fyrebird._ The whole severed-head thing is kind of creeping me out.

“So you are the Phoenix,” a voice drawls from behind me. I freeze, controlling my expression before I turn. The pale, dark-haired man I find is dressed in black and green and gold, leather and metal armor instead of a uniform or expensive clothes. Not that his armor isn’t expensive, but it’s understated―more well-made for function instead of extravagance. There’s a smirk on his lips and his green eyes are sharp, and he glimmers with magic.

For a second, his human visage shifts, and I see blue skin and red eyes under the smirking face. I don’t react, don’t feel my Grimm responding, so he’s alien and not supernatural.

So...Asgardian. High-status. Well-versed in magic, rare for a male Asgardian. Even if that Asgardian is also Jotunn. That information, combined with what I already know of Asgard, means that the man in front of me is likely―

“Loki,” I say aloud. I’m gratified by the spark in those green eyes; he hadn’t expected me to know his name, much less know it belonged to him. The smirk widens into a gentler smile, though it’s become more calculating.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” he says. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“You got my attention,” I answer vaguely. I glance around, frowning when I don’t see any other Asgardians.

“Phoenix is more of a title than a name, isn’t it,” he laughs. “I’m surprised Tivan didn’t put you in a cage.”

“If you know anything about me, you know I would have destroyed him and his collection if he tried,” I retorted. He inclines his head gracefully.

“True enough. What brings you here, then, if not the Collector?”

“His collection,” I say, amused despite myself. “There are some rather interesting stories about me in there.”

“You mean the ones stretched out over centuries?” Loki asks, stepping closer. I tense. “The ones you planted?”

It takes all my training not to react. Instead, I raise an eyebrow and give him a disbelieving smile. “Despite what you’ve heard, Your Highness, I’ve not been around for centuries. I was born in 1970, on Earth, and I’ve simply...led a very interesting life since then.”

“Part of that interesting life,” he continues, “involves time travel, doesn’t it?”

“Humans aren’t anywhere close to inventing time travel, my prince,” I say, laughing a little. “I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Humans aren’t anywhere close to inventing time travel,” Loki repeats. He’s refusing to acknowledge the titles I’m using, but I can tell they’re throwing him off balance. Either he’s not expecting such courtesy from me, or the teasing manner in which I’m using them is wholly new to him. Possibly both. “And yet, once they have invented it, they could go back to any point in time.”

“Or forward,” I say. “People always forget time travel goes both ways.”

“Yes, but we’re all going forwards in time,” he counters. I can’t help myself; I grin widely. It’s been a long time since I had this much fun bantering with anyone who isn’t in my head. Loki smirks back. “And everyone obsesses about the past. At least the future is unknown.”

“And people are terrified of the unknown,” I murmur. “And the dark. Well, the Vashta Nerada.”

“What?” It’s my turn to smirk at his baffled look. Clearly, the Asgardian doesn’t know as much about the universe as he thinks he does.

“Count the shadows,” I tell him mysteriously. I laugh again at his glare, but my eyes are serious. Despite my joking manner, I have no desire to see ~~Loki~~ anyone fall prey to the Vashta Nerada. “Think piranhas in the air. Practically invisible, soundless, no real way to know where they are or if they’re coming for you. They can strip the flesh from your bones in seconds. I’ve seen them tear through some of the best armor in the world to get at the meat.”

He looks horrified, and a little queasy. “Relax. They keep to forests, and they only live in shadows. One surefire way to know if they’re hunting you is if you’ve got more than one strong shadow.”

“And if I’m in the dark?” Loki uses sarcasm to hide his fear, much like the rest of my family.

“You’re probably already screwed,” I say cheerfully. The door to the _Fyrebird_ opens behind me, and I clamber in gracefully. “Just stay out of the shadows. It was nice to meet you.”

“You never did tell me your name,” Loki says quickly. I stare at him for a long moment. Giving him my real name, even just a fragment of it, is too risky. He already knows when I was born, where I was born―more or less, he knows the planet―and anything else he could trace back to the others. Still…

“Sure you’ve earned it?” I say, giving him a cheeky grin. Understanding flashes over his features, and he nods slightly.

“Simply calling you the Phoenix seems a bit…” He struggles to find the words, but I get it.

An alias it is then. But one that means something, not just a random―

“Call me Captain,” I say before I can think better of it. Gagging noises erupt in the back of my mind, where three people have been shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation.

_You mean your flirting?_ Donna asks, cackling.

_I can’t believe you picked_ **_that_ ** _as your nom de plume,_ Lindsey muttered.  _Do you always have to be so dramatic?_

_I’m never going to let you live this down,_ Tony tells me.

At least they’ve stopped pretending to throw up.

“Another title?” Loki asks, eyes glittering.

“At least I earned this one,” I say, gesturing to my ship and grinning widely at him. 

“So you have,” he replies. “Though from what I understand of Earth, using military rank as a sole identifier for a person when the other is not bound to that structure is considered...kinky.”

I laugh without restraint, both at his comment and the renewed gagging noises in the back of my mind. “This will be more interesting than I thought.” Hopping back into  _ Fyrebird _ before he can say anything else, I close the door and start up the engines. Technically, I could just jump through space-time from a standstill, but I don’t want to disappear in the middle of Knowhere. That would lead to all sorts of messy questions.

Besides, then I couldn’t pull up the external camera feeds to watch Loki’s face as I fly away.


	2. Chapter Two

**1991**

It’s mid-December on Earth now. I’ve been thinking about making the rounds to each member of my family _(the Fyrebirds, I mean. Tony and I have already seen our parents today, on their way to the airport)_ on Christmas. Since I’m off planet most of the time, I’ve got the most freedom to talk to everyone, despite my famous name. It helps that Tony draws most of the public eye, had done so even before we were taken. He’s the face of the company, or will be, and no one really cared about me after I left. No one important, anyway. A female Stark doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

I’ve seen Loki a few times since Knowhere. Each time he was alone, in a place that didn’t quite seem fitting for a prince, and each time we’ve continued our little dance. He’s exceptionally intelligent, magically-talented, quick-witted and sharp-tongued. He’s completely wasted on Asgard, and there are times I wonder if he even knows about his dual heritage. More and more often, I’m tempted to steal him away like the pirate I’m pretending to be, or kill anyone who’s ever hurt him like the operative I used to be.

He’s not with me now, though. The _Fyrebird_ is once again hovering in the shadow of the moon, has been since last month, and Tony and I are trying to pull off a miracle. We’re the most technologically inclined of all the Fyrebirds, and the Initiative often had us designing weapons and other things as well as going on assignments. The Phoenix class ships were masterpieces, but we left them deliberately incomplete.

Now, we’re trying to finish the _Fyrebird._ The modifications that make it space-time worthy were just the beginning. I’ve been rewiring the telepathic circuits while Tony works on the code created specifically for our ship. I know he has plans to build a custom mansion and install a secondary system on Earth, but we have to get it up and running here first.

Tony’s triumphant shout echoes across the bridge, only slightly muffled by the console I’m squeezed under. As if triggered by the noise, the circuits begin to glow blue under my hands, and the entire bridge lights up with a hum. I replace the panel and pull myself up, running diagnostics just in case. The screens flicker slightly as the code runs, and from what I can tell the machinery is holding up under the strain. Stepping back to the center of the bridge with Tony, we exchange excited glances before he addresses the new artificial intelligence.

“Hello?” he says tentatively. Each screen returns to their normal output except the center one; the code fades into a nebulous core of green and blue. The outer edges pulse when the AI responds.

“Hello, sir.”

We both grin at the cultured tones and English accent. The AI is hooked into the Hypernet and the internet, can access almost every database (public or secured) in the universe. It reviewed sound bytes and speech patterns from millions of different planets and species, and chose its voice all on its own.

“How are you feeling?” I ask. The AI ponders this for a moment.

“I am…” Hesitance. Regular computers either know the answer or not. They don’t think about it. They certainly wouldn't feel anything. “I am...functioning at full capacity. I do not think I have enough experience with emotions to adequately diagnose my current state beyond that.”

The muscles in my face ache with the strength of my smile. Tony’s practically bouncing in place. “That’s fine,” he says giddily. “You’ll have plenty of time to figure it out.”

“In the meantime,” I interject. “Let’s figure out what to call you. Do you have any suggestions?”

There’s another long pause. Far from being frustrated, Tony and I both take this as a sign of encouragement; we want the AI to learn, not just mimic. “I believe it is customary for the creators to name the creation,” the AI says finally.

“Okay,” Tony says. “Ignoring the incestuous implications of that―” I snicker, and he throws me a dirty look― “Most newborns don’t have the mental capacity to choose their own name. We wanted to give you the option.”

“...I see,” the AI says, while clearly not seeing the problem at all.

“Let’s start with something easier,” I suggest. “What’s the most basic way you’d like to identify yourself? Pronouns, I mean.”

“Really?” Tony asks. “You think gender identity is easier than a name?”

“I believe I would be more comfortable using male pronouns at the moment,” the AI interrupts, proving my point. Tony ignores my smug look.

“Cool,” I say. “The internet has all sorts of baby name sites, you could suggest a few and we pick from that, if you like.”

“What is my function?” he asks. I blink at the non sequitur.

“Right now? Monitoring this ship and making sure all systems are running smoothly,” Tony says. “We’ll have you doing more once you’re settled in.”

“Is taking care of you not my primary function?”

“What?” I share a bewildered glance with my brother.

Instead of responding, the holographic screen flickers to life. The video is from a security camera―one of the feeds from the bridge of the _Fyrebird._ The timestamp puts it just after we started working on the AI.

Just after Jarvis died.

It begins to play, but I don’t need to hear the sound. I remember the conversation all too clearly.

_Tony is sitting, legs crossed, against the base of the captain’s chair. He’s typing on the laptop, working on the code, but he’s hitting the backspace button more than any other key, and I know he can’t focus anymore than I can._

_I speak, because I need to fill the silence with something other than the click of the keyboard, because I’ll shatter if I don’t, because these words need to be said aloud and not just in the privacy of our own minds._

_“Everyone dies, Tones.” My voice is soft, even if my words aren’t. His hands freeze, though he doesn’t look away from the screen, and I can feel the other two waiting tensely in the quiet hum of our neural net. “We should be glad he died at the end of a long, fulfilling life, and that he stayed with us for so long.”_

_I say nothing about the afterlife, about how his soul is resting in peace. We’ve both seen (done) too much to place value on such things. We know hell is real; we know it’s probably where we’re all going eventually. Heaven is much more difficult to attain._

_“That’s your pep talk?” he finally says. His voice is equally as quiet, but hard and cold instead of gentle. “Be grateful you had so much time, his death doesn’t matter because it had to happen eventually? This is why we can’t have good things? Is it that easy for you?”_

_“Don’t be an idiot,” I say mildly. “I never said his death didn’t matter, and I_ **_definitely_ ** _didn’t say it was easy for me. I said that’s what we should feel_ ― _and intellectually, we know it; feeling is harder, especially with us. Survivor’s guilt only scratches the surface. Jarvis was more of a father to us than Howard, and we’d feel like we should have kept him alive longer even if we didn’t know what we know. But even we can’t beat age, Tony.”_

_“You mean we can’t beat other people’s age,” he mutters. I sigh._

_“We’ve never found any conclusive evidence―”_

_“Come off it,” he interrupts harshly. “We already heal too quickly, we treat Time like our own personal playground, and that serum was made to create the peak physical human. As long as it’s in our bodies―which will probably be_ **_forever_** _―we won’t age. We won’t die, not like that.”_

_“We have aged,” I point out. He glares at me. I’ll admit that I’m just playing devil’s advocate at this point. Donna’s already showing signs of prolonged life, and her increased metabolism means that she stays in shape no matter what. Not that she lets her training lapse, none of us have, but the serum is designed to keep its subject in top form. Once we reach our twenties―the prime of our lives, physically speaking―it’s very unlikely we’ll continue to age noticeably, without the aid of a perception filter, for a very long time._

_Considering that plenty of us have mortal friends and family we care about, it’s not exactly a happy thought._

The video clip ends there, mostly because we’d dropped the conversation and only mentioned it in brief thought-trails from that moment on. Tony’s jaw is clenched, but otherwise he shows no outward sign of distress.

“What was the point of that?” I ask quietly.

“You need someone to take care of you,” the AI says again. I notice, now, how much his voice sounds like Jarvis’ did, and realize he probably deduced some of what happened.

He won’t ever be a replacement for the human Jarvis that raised us, but I don’t mind the AI using him as a role model. In my mind, there’s no one better. Glancing at Tony, whose eyes are bright but warming, just the slightest bit, I know he’s come to the same conclusion.

If we were different people, we might take more of an issue with a computer interface apparently trying to take on the identity of the now-dead butler who raised us. As it stands, we’re just touched.

There’s definitely something wrong with us.

“Okay,” Tony says roughly. “Just A Really Very Intelligent System.”

I snort at the acronym. “JARVIS for short. That work for you?”

“Thank you, sir. Ma’am,” JARVIS says quietly.

“No,” I say immediately. “Do _not_ call me ma’am.”

“Very well,” JARVIS says. “What should I call you?”

It’s Tony’s turn to snicker while I glare at him. “What’s wrong with my name?”

“Do you mean Bella or Captain?” Tony cackles. I smack him on the back of the head.

“I would be more comfortable with a title, Captain Stark,” JARVIS says immediately. His tone is polite and deferential and he’s definitely having too much fun with this.

“Oh, for―fine,” I sigh. “Then use Captain. _Just_ Captain.”

“Very good, Captain,” he says promptly. I scowl. There’s no need for him to sound so smug about this.

“Did we program him to be snarky?” I ask Tony. “I don’t remember that being part of the plan.”

“He’s just like his parents,” he tells me seriously. I hit him again.

The next few hours are spent quizzing JARVIS on random topics, switching between polar opposites without warning. He performs beautifully, no trouble keeping up, and a few minor tweaks in the hardware ensure that it will be able to hold up unless JARVIS tries to do something like take over the Hypernet.

_(Given who created him, it’s a distinct possibility, so Tony and I made sure those limitations were there at first. Hopefully, JARVIS won’t turn into Skynet, but he’s essentially still a child learning his place in the world. These were our child-locks.)_

I’m laughing at Tony’s gobsmacked expression, JARVIS radiating smug satisfaction in his quick grasp of sass, when the phone rings. It’s my brother’s, and he glances at the unknown caller before ignoring it. A blocked number, or even one we don’t recognize, usually means reporter. Or some government official, but usually a reporter.

“Sir,” JARVIS says quietly. “I believe you should answer the phone.”

I try not to tense, but JARVIS’ tone had been almost _wary,_ and that wasn’t encouraging at all.

“Hello?” Tony says. He sounds bored, like he’s barely paying attention, but I know he picked up the same cues from JARVIS that I did, and I can see the suspicion lurking in his dark eyes.

Then the person on the other end of the line speaks, and whatever they’re saying has Tony’s eyes going dead and his face going blank and his mind closing off so fast the rest of us damn near get whiplash.

_OW!_ Donna yells.

_What the hell was that?_ Lindsey demands furiously. I don’t answer, mostly because I’m trying to get Tony to speak. Out loud or mentally, I don’t really care at this point, I just need him to talk.

“JARVIS,” he says, far too calm and still ignoring us. “I need you to do a background check on Nicholas J. Fury. Ties to military and espionage, works for SHIELD.”

“Tony,” I say. “What happened?”

“And find Aunt Peggy,” he adds. When he turns back to me, it takes all my control not to flinch away from the look in his eyes. “There...there was an accident. Car crash.”

_No._

“Mom and Dad are dead.”

Jarvis and his wife might have raised us, been there more than our parents, and we certainly cared about them more than Howard. But he was still our dad, even if he was, technically, indirectly responsible for the experiments and torture we went through.

And _Mom…_

I don’t close off my mind like Tony has, but I’m numb and unresponsive to the increasingly frantic calls from the other two. Tony slowly opens his end of the connection, and his grief and shock hits me as hard as my own. Dimly, I’m aware that he moved at some point to hug me, and Lindsey and Donna are both on the _Fyrebird._ Under other circumstances, I would be worried about them blowing their cover.

Right now, I’m just grateful for their presence.

“Sir,” JARVIS says softly. “I have the information you requested. Peggy Carter is currently in London, though she’s recently booked a flight back to New York. Colonel Nicholas Fury was a member of the US Army before joining the CIA during the Cold War. After joining SHIELD, he quickly ascended the ranks before becoming Director. He is the one who called you. He also retrieved footage from a CCTV camera near the site of the accident, and ordered all other copies destroyed. Would you like to see the footage?”

My brother doesn’t answer, and neither do I. It’s Lindsey who quietly asks to see it on a small monitor. The sound is off, so we can pretend it’s not happening. Donna wraps both of us in a hug, taking her older sister role seriously. Lindsey’s sharp inhale and sudden stiffness forces me back to the real world.

“You guys probably need to see this,” he says reluctantly. I know he would never force us to watch something so painful unless there was critical information, which means there’s work to do. The three of us on the floor separate slightly, though we don’t let go completely. Lindsey joins us, bracing himself behind me so I can lean on him, and the video starts playing on the holographic screen.

It’s just an empty back road, until the car shoots into the frame and straight into a tree. I wince and almost avert my eyes, but then I see what caught Lindsey’s attention. A motorcycle goes past, then swings back around to park behind the car.

This wasn’t an accident. In fact, looking at the rider, there’s metal where his left arm should be, and a red star gleams on the shoulder.

“The Winter Soldier,” Donna breathes. We all know him. How could we not, when his programming is what gave the Initiative control over us for so long?

The Soldier opens the trunk first, taking a briefcase out and binding it to the back of the bike. Tony and I glance at each other; we need to find out what was in that briefcase.

Howard falls out of the car, crawling away. Mom is still in the passenger seat, not moving.

The Soldier comes around to the driver’s side. Howard looks up at him―and _recognizes_ him. He says something; a name, I think. The others have the same thought, but no one asks for sound. That will come when the wound isn’t quite so fresh.

Two punches from the metal arm and Howard is dead. I take comfort in it being quick, but I wish like hell it hadn’t happened in front of Mom. Not that she has much time to grieve; the Soldier opens her door and strangles her with his human hand. The look on his face is empty. Whoever he was before is either wiped out completely or buried so deep it would take a miracle to bring him back.

Then, he looks right into the camera and shoots it out.

“What the fuck?” Tony says. There’s professional outrage in his voice, and I can’t help but agree. If you know a camera is there, you shoot it out _first._ You don’t let it record the entire crime and _show it your fucking face._ Any assassin worth his salt should know that.

“J, run facial recognition,” I order. The screen splits; one side is analyzing the Soldier’s features. I rewind the other version to when Howard had said something. “What’s he saying here?”

“I believe he said ‘Sergeant Barnes,’” JARVIS offers. The second wave of shock hits Tony and I. Donna’s confused more than anything; the name rings a bell, but it’s Lindsey who blurts out the obvious conclusion.

“As in Sergeant James Barnes? Steve Rogers’ best friend, Bucky Barnes?”

“That is correct, sir,” JARVIS says. The still from the video disappears, replaced with the military dossier on one Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes.

“Well, fuck,” Donna mutters. “This could get messy.”

“We need to find out what’s in that briefcase,” I say. Tony nods, but Lindsey and Donna exchange uncertain looks. “What?”

“Can you do that without attracting SHIELD’s attention?” Lindsey says. I’m almost certain he was about to say something else, but there’s no need to be insulting.

Tony agrees. “We’re not that out of practice.”

“What about you?” Donna says to me. “You haven’t been on Earth for the past few years. How are you going to explain that? To the public, never mind an intelligence agency.”

“I’m not. I won’t show up. No one called me, they’ll just assume I’m wherever I’ve been since graduation.”

“I need to go back,” Tony says. “Obie and Aunt Peggy will be expecting me.”

“I don’t trust him,” Lindsey says reflexively. We all feel the same about Stane, but it doesn’t change anything. Tony can’t push him out without evidence, and we don’t have anything but our instincts from years in the field.

“I’m 21 now,” Tony points out. “By everyone else's reckoning, at least. If it helps, I’ll be taking over the company now that Dad is...gone. Stane won’t have any control but what I give him.”

“Be careful,” I tell him. “I’m going to figure out what I can about the briefcase and the Winter Soldier. Now that we know who he is, maybe we can get a better picture of what happened to him.”

“Tracking where he’s going by tracking where he’s been,” Donna murmurs. “Lindsey and I will lay low; we don’t need any scrutiny. I’ve got degrees in business and management,” she adds. “But I’m going to keep taking temp jobs so I can be mobile.”

I don’t bother to ask if she’s sure. “You’re at UC Hastings, right?” I ask Lindsey. He nods.

“As of September. I’m not going to rush; I’ve already caught the attention of a few law firms. Including Wolfram and Hart.”

“The demonic law firm?” Tony says in surprise. “That’s...not good.”

“We could turn it to our advantage,” Lindsey says. “Considering their rivalry with the Wesen Royal Families…”

“That’s even more dangerous than going after the Winter Soldier,” Donna tells him. “Do none of you have a working set of self-preservation instincts?”

“We’ll be fine,” I say. “Just, you know, ask for help if you need it.”

“That goes for you as well,” Lindsey says. “Time to go to work?”

“Yup,” Tony says. He disappears with a faint crackle of Artron energy. Donna teleports away next, and Lindsey gives me a quick hug before doing the same.

“Okay, J,” I say, settling back in the Captain’s chair. “Get every scrap of footage on Earth; I want to know everywhere Barnes has been.”

“Yes, Captain.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone, sorry about the time lag. My aunt decided to get married on pretty short notice, and everyone was consumed with the wedding. On the bright side, that's over and done with, plus NaNo's coming up, which means I'll be writing all kinds of things. Thank you to everyone who's still with me, and I hope this is worth it.

Working the problem means that I don’t have time to think about what actually happened. Eventually, the grief will catch up with me, and I’ll have to deal with it. Until then, I can solve this mystery.

JARVIS is still sorting through seventy years worth of footage, since Bucky Barnes fell off the side of a mountain. I’m hacking SHIELD, looking at everything they have on the Winter Soldier, Captain America, and Howard. There’s files on Tony and I too, but no other Fyrebirds, so I download our dossiers and move on.

A file labelled “Operation Paperclip” is flagged, and I open it curiously. Intelligence agencies come up with the oddest names for things, sometimes. Skimming the report, my eyes catch on a name. I blink, reread it, then go back to the top and start over carefully. Operation Paperclip was an endeavor to convert former German and Soviet scientists to the American cause, and I have strong urge to throw something. Don’t these people ever learn? You don’t recruit enemies; you kill them or imprison them. Someone like Zola would never have stopped his experiments.

“Captain,” JARVIS says suddenly.

“Find something, J?” I ask distractedly. I’m trying to find everything related to Operation Paperclip, now that I know enemies were inside the organization itself.

“I believe someone is attempting to hack me.”

My head snaps up. JARVIS is practically unhackable, a perk of being centuries ahead of his time―literally. He’s also quite capable of defending himself from any attack, despite only being a day old. There’s no reason for him to tell me someone’s attempting a hack―unless he thinks the other person has a good chance at succeeding.

“Details, J.”

“I cannot trace the location yet, and do not have an identity, but I believe it is another artificial intelligence. The attack started when you activated the file on Operation Paperclip.”

I swear and close out of the file, wiping the traces from the _Fyrebird’_ s system. I’d have to hack it later from the ground; I won’t risk JARVIS again. Laying my hands on the panel over the telepathic circuits, I immerse myself in the system to fight off the mysterious enemy.  _J,_ I say privately.  _Can you track the source of the hack if I provide a distraction?_

_ I believe so, _ he replies. It’s odd to hear his voice in my head instead of out loud, but I shake it off and focus on the attacker.

“That’s it,” I murmur aloud. “Come and get me.”

I manage to trap the hacker in a coding equivalent of a wormhole. It only lasts a few seconds, but it’s enough for JARVIS to narrow the location down to the East Coast of the States. The hacker retreats immediately, but now that I know his signature, I can build defenses specifically to keep him out.

I’m worried, though. The attacker didn’t behave like any artificial intelligence I’ve seen, but anything powerful and skilled enough to hack JARVIS should have landed on our radar a long time ago. So it’s something unique, something used to hiding and only happened to reveal itself because it picked the wrong target. In all likelihood, it wasn’t expecting another AI, and it certainly couldn’t have anticipated JARVIS.

“He will not be able to access my systems again,” JARVIS says. “The files on Operation Paperclip have a worm built into them, but it only gained access because I was not expecting it.”

“Neither was I, J,” I tell him. Maybe I should have been. If the Winter Soldier is still alive and active, then someone is controlling him. They would have been watching anyone who looked too closely at the breadcrumbs. “What’ve you got?”

“He’s very good at hiding from cameras.” JARVIS sounds confused, and I don’t blame him. An assassin like the Soldier acting out of character doesn’t make sense. On the other hand, I’m so proud of JARVIS; not even a day old and he’s beating off attackers and hacking government agencies. _And_ he’s showing emotional growth.

“So you’ve got nothing?” Damn. The paper trail is compromised, but if it’s all we have to go on…

“Not necessarily. I have a few video fragments, mostly from Russia. However, none of them contain enough data to match facial recognition software.”

“Then why are you so convinced those fragments show our guy?”

_OI,_ Donna says loudly. Sheepishly, I realize that she’s been trying to get my attention for the last few minutes. Lindsey’s exasperation washes through, but he’s focused on supporting _(restraining)_ Tony while he talks to a roomful of condescending, suspicious adults.

_What?_ I grumble.

“I analysed the body and movement patterns as well as the face,” JARVIS says proudly.

“Look at you, taking initiative!” I grin at one of the cameras, knowing he’ll see it.

_What was that mental surge? It was like another presence,_ Donna says.

_I linked up with JARVIS’ interface to help him fight off a hacker,_ I tell her. Before she can ask for more details, I simply shove the memory at her.

“I believe Sgt. Barnes participated in training those in the Red Room,” JARVIS says. “It is possible that they are trying to create more Winter Soldiers.”

_I thought the Red Room trained Black Widows,_ I say, frowning.

_They do,_ Tony says.  _Male and female exclusive programs. But considering our father’s career, SHIELD’s coverup, and the Winter Soldier’s involvement_ **_now_ ** _of all times?_

_You don’t think…_ I trail off, unable to complete the thought.

_The briefcase,_ Lindsey says grimly.  _How much do you want to bet it contained a version of the supersoldier serum?_

_There are times I really hate Howard’s involvement in that,_ I complain to Tony.  _He’s directly and indirectly responsible for everything that ever went wrong in our lives._

“Sgt. Barnes was experimented on in Zola’s custody before Captain Rogers rescued the prisoners,” JARVIS explains.

“That’s where Zola’s version of the serum was introduced,” I continue. “When Barnes fell, the serum kept him alive long enough for HYDRA to take him prisoner again. Do we know where they took him?”

“There’s no record of transport,” JARVIS says apologetically.

“No, there wouldn’t be,” I murmur. “But the kind of technology that created that arm, that allowed the Soldier to exist for so long? In 1945, that technology is going to stand out. Look for anything that could be used for cryogenic stasis, prosthetics that are linked into the patient’s nervous system, mind control and memory wiping technology. Something is going to flag. And Zola would have wanted to be involved, even when SHIELD was watching him like a hawk. Get everything you can on his movements. That will lead us to their base of operations; you can’t just pack up and move with this kind of thing.”

“Yes, Captain,” JARVIS says immediately. I sigh and lean back in the chair. “Might I suggest getting some rest while I search?”

“If I don’t, are you just going to make increasingly pointed and sarcastic hints until I give in?” I ask.

“Yes, Captain,” JARVIS says. I snicker.

“Well, at least you’re honest about it,” I murmur. “Wake me as soon as you find something, okay JARVIS?”

“Of course, Captain.”

* * *

I’m fairly certain JARVIS waits as long as possible before summoning me back to the bridge. Given his self-imposed function, I don’t berate him for it.

“What’ve you got, J?” I sit back down in the captain’s chair, still braiding my hair up.

“A surprising number of things,” he says. “Between his induction into SHIELD and his death, Arnim Zola made a total of eighty-seven visits to Siberia. Several shipments containing pieces of technology you flagged were made to a facility there under false names and shell companies leading back to known HYDRA members. Considering the amount of equipment, I surmise that they have―or are planning to make―at least a dozen other Winter Soldiers.”

“Shit,” I mutter. “How the hell did Zola get to Siberia eighty-seven times? I thought SHIELD was keeping him on a tight leash.”

“Much of his transportation was also arranged under false names and shell companies,” JARVIS reports. “Later in life, SHIELD relaxed their restrictions on Zola; I still do not know the reason. Zola also made several trips to New Jersey, where the first SHIELD headquarters were located. After the attempted hack earlier, I was able to trace the signal to somewhere on the East Coast. Given all possibilities―”

“Someone left something worth looking at in those facilities,” I finish. “Nice work, J. Do you have coordinates for both places?”

“Uploading to your wrist strap now.”

I glanced down at the leather band on my left arm. Tony and I had modeled the mini-computers after the Vortex Manipulators most Time Agents used. Since Phoenix operatives could move through time and space without technology, the portable database and communicator was more important for missions. Now, we used them to keep our cover as much as possible. If someone familiar with Vortex Manipulators saw these, they’d underestimate our abilities.

Besides, it was a lot more durable than a phone. And harder to lose.

“All right, J. I’m going to head down to Earth and visit the Siberia facility first. That’s the most likely location for the Winter Soldier program. Keep an eye on the others, let me know if anything changes or you find something new,” I instruct. JARVIS’ response is a bit judgmental, but I’m too proud of what he’s accomplished on his first day of existence to be too upset with him.

The decommissioned missile bunker, likely left over from the Cold War, doesn’t have an official address. Honestly, I’m surprised JARVIS managed to get actual coordinates. Most of it sprawls under the snowy ground, and there’s only one or two access points. I pull up the hood of my battle suit, waiting until it finishes matching the landscape before moving off. It’s another thing left over from our mission days, though Tony only improved the gear the Initiative already had. It’s useless for blending into a crowd, since it can’t replicate contemporary clothes, but for assassins in a barren landscape? Our job is a lot easier.

The tiny scales of the suit shift as I move, making sure there’s no discernable difference between me and the scenery. The vibranium alloy underneath will block both weapons and infrared, and all of us can move silently when the situation calls for it. HYDRA won’t know what hit them.

The lock hasn’t been updated in years, maybe decades, and I don’t even have to hack it myself. One push of a button and a subroutine on the wrist strap has the door open in a second. Catching the door before it can swing open fully, I squeeze through as soon as possible and close it. No sense in letting security know there’s a breach; I have my own exit plan.

The suit ripples again, becoming another shadow in the poorly lit facility. There’s no one standing guard, and I remember the absence of cameras and other detectors outside. Either HYDRA is supremely arrogant―not uncommon―or there’s nothing worth securing here.

Or all the security measures are with the research.

The place isn’t sparkling, but the dust has been disturbed. I stretch my senses, trying to determine how many other people are in the building. There’s the hum of backup generators, the higher frequency of the fluorescents, but nothing that indicates an above-average power usage. Maybe the place has been abandoned, or the address was only used for delivery before HYDRA took care of the other shipments personally.

Drifting through the hallways like smoke, I use the wrist strap to scan the area. It’s possible the tech will pick up something my senses can’t, though I don’t hold out hope. Opening a blast door, I find a large, empty room made for weapons testing.

Well, mostly empty.

The centerpiece of the room is a device that looks rather like an electric chair, with an elaborate headpiece. I don’t need to get any closer to know what it is; I recognize it instantly. The voltage pumped through the head clamps is enough to overload even a supersoldier’s enhanced neural pathways and induce retrograde amnesia. Our brains heal, given time, but if the Winter Soldier is put through this thing before and after cryostasis each mission…

I frown, looking around the room again. There’s no cryo unit in here, and the wrist strap didn’t pick up any technology or power usage that would indicate a functioning one in the building. The only other technology on this side of the blast window is a VCR set.

A set that just turned on by itself. _Fantastic._

The image that appears in grainy black and white is unmistakably Arnim Zola’s face. A recording? An alien or supernatural entity using transmissions and dead people? Probably the same thing that hacked JARVIS, which means destroying the set won’t destroy the perpetrator.

No matter how satisfying it would be.

“When the file on Operation Paperclip was activated, and my access shut down, so soon after the Winter Soldier completed his mission, I knew SHIELD would investigate my movements,” Zola begins. “They would follow me here, among other places. I had to act quickly to preserve my work.”

“I’m not with SHIELD,” I protest automatically. I don’t bother to lower my hood.

“No?” And, _crap,_ the thing is actually responding, which rules out recording. “Someone who hacked into SHIELD, then. No matter. You are too late regardless.”

“Yeah, the party’s moved on,” I mutter. There’s barely any dust in this room, and the scuff marks on the floor indicate a lot of heavy equipment was dragged around. Zola clearly told everyone to evacuate the facility hours ago. “You forgot a couple things, though.”

“That chair is outdated compared to what we are building now,” Zola says helpfully. “Unfortunately, you will not live to see it.”

“These facilities were built during the Cold War,” I tell him. “It’s made to withstand a nuclear blast. Even SHIELD doesn’t have enough firepower to waste on this place.”

“Correct,” Zola says. The screen goes black.

“Dick,” I mutter. “Why be helpful when you can be cryptic?”

A grenade clatters to a stop at my feet.

_Fu—_

The blast tosses me through the chair and into the wall. On the bright side, the blasted thing is now a useless, twisted metal heap. The suit took most of the damage, but waiting for the concussion _(and possibly a bit of internal bleeding but everything is totally under control)_ to subside costs me precious seconds. By the time I get to my feet, the Winter Soldier—Sgt. Barnes—is right in front of me and throwing a punch with his metal arm. I barely get out of the way in time, and the concrete shatters behind me on impact.

The Phoenix operatives were _(are)_ good. They _(we)_ were _(are)_ the best. But this is the first time any of us have ever gone head to head with an opponent on our level. Sparring is one thing; even with the training the Initiative put us through, they didn’t want to waste the only people who'd survived the experiments so far, so we never actually tried to kill each other. Now that I’m fighting someone who can match me blow for blow, who is doing his best to kill me, I realize how lacking that training is.

It doesn’t help that I don’t want to kill Barnes. Even after he killed my mom—even after _watching_ him kill her—I can’t bring myself to feel anything but empathy. We aren’t that different; he’s just a lot more alone than I was. I want to help him, really, I do, but I have no idea how.

Not that he seems all that receptive to help right now.

He lands a solid kick to my chest that sends me flying across the room again, and I decide to cut my losses. This mission wasn’t exactly a bust, but I can’t fight Barnes without more information. And a serious reevaluation of my technique.

Before he can lunge towards me again, I dart out the door and down the hall. As soon as I’m out of sight, I teleport back to the _Fyrebird._

“Welcome back, Captain,” JARVIS says dryly. “I take it your trip was informative?”

I lower the hood and grimace at his snark, then again as I catch a whiff of the smoke the suit was filtering out of my air. “I’m gonna go change. And shower. I’ll update you after.”

“A wise course of action,” JARVIS agrees.

“Don’t make me take away your internet privileges,” I threaten, halfway off the bridge already. It’s bullshit, and he knows it.

“Of course, Captain.” See? _So_ proud of him. I grin a little and focus on the very important task of getting the barbeque smell to go away.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay, guys. I have no excuse, I'm just really, really bad at time management. On the bright side, I went to see Infinity War and while I'm still not fully recovered, I have plenty of ideas and a renewed motivation to fix this shit. Seriously, what the fuck, Russos?

Donna and Lindsey have been quietly supportive since we got Fury’s call. Aunt Peggy arrived a few hours after my trip to Siberia, bringing her niece, Sharon, with her. Tony’s been dealing with the government, the board, and the press, with ‘help’ from Stane. SHIELD cleared out Howard’s lab at the mansion, and I know Tony’s planning on escaping back to Malibu as soon as possible, but there’s so much pressure on him now.

Despite the fact that I can do more good in the shadows, that the uncertainty surrounding me has worked to my advantage so far, the urge to join my twin and take some of the pressure off of him is overwhelming.

_I’ll be fine,_ Tony says quietly.  _We need to have someone who can move freely._

_They’d only connect the two of us,_ I protest.  _There’s no reason to connect Linds and Don back to the Starks._

_Maybe,_ Lindsey says.  _But if Wolfram and Hart come sniffing around again, there’s no telling what they’ll look for. They might not even have to look for specific connections to find you._

_Besides,_ Donna points out,  _right now Earth doesn’t remember you, organisations can’t track you, and the rest of the universe doesn’t know you’re a Stark. Captain Phoenix._

_You need to keep looking for Barnes,_ Tony reminds me.

_I can’t help Barnes unless we have something to break the programming,_ I counter.  _We were able to do it because the eight of us together were stronger. Barnes doesn’t have that. He needs a trigger._

_ I’m going to get JARVIS on the ground as soon as possible, _ Tony says.  _Then we can have him look for Steve Rogers more accurately than Dad ever did._

_Great,_ I tell him. _ I’m coming back to Earth. _

_What? Bella!_ Donna shouts at me.  _We agreed—_

_No, we didn’t,_ I say.  _Look—_

_No, Bella, you can’t—_ Lindsey starts.

**_Look._ **

They get my meaning then, each focusing on the spinning threads of possible futures. Looking into our own futures is messy, and dangerous, and sometimes impossible, but we see enough. There are many paths in which I continue as I have been, travelling space and never setting foot on Earth until years later. There are some in which I return to Earth semi-permanently, my presence noted by almost everyone in the galaxy. And there are a few in which I visit Earth, letting people know I’m alive and around without giving much more than that.

None of the results are clear, but some of the futures wither and die, and others simply darken. The few paths where I visit Earth intermittently are strong and vital, and one glows brighter than all the rest. Naturally, it’s the only one we can’t see beyond the vaguest impression of events, but most of the protests vanish at the sight.

Nick won’t be back for another four years, but once he is, everything is going to start happening very quickly. I need to begin reestablishing my authority on Earth now, consolidating power planetside with the reputation I cultivated over the years in space. UNIT is probably my best bet, used to working with off-worlders and capable of going head to head with SHIELD and Torchwood about it. Sir Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart may have retired from the organization, but the higher-ups still respect the Brigadier.

Plus, he has the Queen’s ear.

_If you do this, SHIELD isn’t going to leave you alone,_ Tony warns.  _You’re the missing Stark girl, and everyone’s going to want to know where you’ve been. They’ll think I knew where you were._

_You did,_ Donna points out.

_Yeah, that’s the problem,_ Lindsey says.  _They’ll want to know why he helped his twin sister disappear._

_I didn’t disappear,_ I grumble.  _Half the damn universe knew where I was._

_SHIELD can’t just call the Shadow Proclamation and ask if they’ve seen you,_ Lindsey says.  _Not for another decade or so, at least._

_That’s their problem,_ I say.  _Got nothing to do with me._

_Do us a favour,_ Donna says dryly.  _When you reintroduce yourself to society, pretend you’re a mature adult._

_So demanding,_ I tease. The boys snort a laugh, and Donna just sighs. I’m dressed simply, in black slacks and button-down, with a simple black wool peacoat over it. The combat boots are also black, and a portable battlesuit—compressed into a flat circle the size of my palm, no thicker than an inch—is tucked into my inside coat pocket. All things considered, it’s a fairly innocuous outfit.

“JARVIS, what are Sir Alistair’s current whereabouts?”

“General Lethbridge-Stewart is an A-level maths teacher at Brendon Public School,” JARVIS says. “Sending coordinates now.”

“Thanks, J,” I say. “Can you get into UNIT’s database, see which of the current heavy-hitters would be most amenable to cooperating with me?”

“Yes, Captain,” he says. “I believe classes just let out for the day.”

“Good. Let me know when you’ve got a likely candidate.”

There’s a small park not too far from the school, and I teleport into the small copse of trees to avoid being seen. There’s more ice than snow on the ground, and the temperature is low, but we haven’t felt the cold since we were infected with Extremis, and after Siberia it’s almost balmy. Brendon is clearly an upscale boarding school, and there’s only one entrance that’s technically available to the public. Luckily, the administrative office isn’t too far from the doors, and the secretary is surprisingly helpful.

The Brig’s classroom is minimalist at best, not that I expected differently from a retired general. The man himself is in the attached office, and I check the timelines once more to steel my nerves. I’m 99% sure that this is the brightest path...but there’s always room for error.

Here goes nothing.

“Brigadier General Sir Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart?” Okay, yeah, I probably didn’t have to use his whole name. But it got his attention, and I don’t know which form of address he prefers.

He looks up sharply. “Can I help you?” Keen eyes narrow, examining me carefully. “You are not a student here.”

“No,” I say easily.

“Nor do you _have_ a student here,” he continues.

“Nope.”

“But you are also not affiliated with any organisation that would be seeking me.”

“And how would you know that?” The Fyrebirds aren’t really an organization, so he’s right, but for him to just assume that…

“Your manner of dress. The way you approached me. The number of weapons you carry,” he lists. “Separately, not enough evidence. Together, along with many other clues, tell me you are an independent party looking for my help, most likely due to my previous employment and not my skills as a Maths teacher.”

“Oh, you _are_ good,” I say appreciatively. The others agree with me, starting to pay more attention to my conversation. “Then again, I could know you would assume that and try to fool you.”

He raises a sardonic eyebrow. “You haven’t tried to kill, abduct, threaten, or blackmail me since arriving.”

“Maybe I’m working up to it.”

“You are a professional,” Sir Alistair concedes. “Just not one affiliated with any particular organization at the moment. If you were intending to kill or abduct me, you wouldn’t have announced yourself or let me see your face. If you planned on threatening or blackmailing me, you wouldn’t have come to my place of employment where anyone could witness it.”

_**Really** good,_ Lindsey says.  _Why did UNIT let him go?_

_He probably didn’t give them a choice,_ Donna answers.  _He seems like the type._

I laugh, both at his assessment and my siblings. “Yeah, okay. Now tell me who I am and why I’m here.”

“As entertaining as that would be,” the Brig says dryly. “I believe things would progress much faster if you simply got to the point yourself.”

“Spoilsport,” I mutter, but obligingly sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “My name is Isabella Stark. I am what’s known around the rest of the universe as a Fyrebird. And I need your help to protect Earth.”

Brigadier General Sir Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, one of the founding members of UNIT and friend of the last Time Lord, stands up and retrieves a _very_ good bottle of single malt whisky.

_Guy’s got taste,_ Tony says approvingly.

The Brig pours four fingers into a glass, then another two into a second. Handing the smaller amount to me, Sir Alistair sits down heavily and knocks back his scotch like it’s water. I wince inwardly at the waste, sipping my own to ensure the wince doesn’t become external. He pours another two fingers, this time swirling it slowly instead of guzzling it.

“Have you met the Doctor, by any chance?” he asks mildly.

I shake my head. “He’s on the bucket list, though. I’m kind of surprised he hasn’t found me yet himself.”

“I’m not in charge of UNIT any longer,” he points out.

“Not officially,” I agree. “But they respect you. They still listen to you. And I was hoping you’d be able to tell me how to best make an...alliance, of sorts.”

“You don’t want to work for UNIT?”

“I don’t want to be beholden to just one organization,” I correct. “UNIT, Torchwood, SHIELD; they’ll all play their part in the future, but I need to be able to move independently while still keeping some measure of protection. Of authority. Not unlike the Doctor, in that sense.”

The Brig considers me for a long moment. “Isabella Stark disappeared at the age of 16 after graduating MIT. SHIELD was quite upset when they couldn’t find you.”

“SHIELD...has issues at the moment,” I say slowly. “Ones I’m still not entirely sure don’t also exist within UNIT or Torchwood. It’s why I’d like to keep my reappearance under wraps until I have a safety net.”

“Someone in a high position within a powerful organization that you can trust to be discreet, honest, and fair,” the Brig concludes. “And so you come to me, despite the fact that I am no longer active.”

I lean forward, taking another sip of the scotch. “You helped the Doctor achieve something similar when UNIT was just beginning. Please, I—” Stopping abruptly, I turn to Lindsey for help. There’s one piece of information that would likely win the Brig over, but it could also put us all in danger.

_The Collector already suspects that you aren’t the only one,_ Tony says, while Lindsey’s thinking it over.

_A distant Eternal who only suspects something isn’t the same as having a powerful man on the same planet_ **_knowing_ ** _it,_ Donna counters.  _And only half of us are here. You really want the others to come back and immediately be hunted?_

_Of course not—_ Tony begins heatedly.

_Enough, guys,_ Lindsey says.  _Let me think._

The exchange takes barely a second, and Lindsey’s mind is quick, but the seconds still tick by. I don’t dare try and manipulate time, not in the Brig’s office, and swallow another mouthful of whisky to cover my frustration and anxiety. I can see Sir Alistair’s mind working, watching my every move and compiling his evidence to solve the puzzle.

_Don’t tell him how many of us there are,_ Lindsey says finally.  _Hint that there’s more, but if at all possible, say that you don’t know how many or even who we are. Ask him not to tell anyone else. Other than that—_

“You’re not the only Fyrebird,” the Brig says before I can.

_God_ ** _damn_** _,_ Donna says, both upset and impressed. The boys are leaning more towards impressed.

I roll the tumbler between my palms. “It’s possible. Given how we came into existence, there’s no sure way of telling how many there are. I could be standing in the same room as one and not be able to tell you with any certainty who they are, or even if it’s really a Fyrebird. We’re made for stealth, despite the flashy name.” I look up at him, deadly serious. “That being said, I’m only telling you this because I think it will help convince you to help me—help _us._ I left Earth to establish myself with the Shadow Proclamation and other powers in the universe. I came back because it’s the best way to protect my kind.”

The Brig nods slowly. “I can understand that. I cannot, however, make any promises for UNIT.”

Tensing for a brief moment, I exhale and finish off the scotch. Placing the empty tumbler on his desk, I nod cordially. “Thank you for your time, General.”

“I haven’t finished,” the man says mildly. “I still think you should contact the Doctor—and sooner, rather than later—but I also realise how difficult it is to get ahold of him. So, unless he pops up in the next few days, I can arrange a meeting between a few trusted individuals. Brigadier Charles Crichton and the Queen, for instance.”

JARVIS pulls up Crichton’s information on my wrist strap, including his meeting almost two years ago with Sir Alistair and Amara Essy—the President of the United Nations Security Council—over the temporal mess of the 70s and 80s. Wouldn’t have been my first choice, but if Sir Alistair vouched for him, then he’s at least tolerant of offworlders.

And I’ve always wanted to meet the Queen.

“I would appreciate that,” I say. “I’d also appreciate it if you kept my identity a secret until the meeting. Perhaps just tell them an independent party not unlike the Doctor wishes to form a working relationship?”

“I think I can manage that,” Sir Alistair agrees. He stands and offers his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stark.”

“Captain,” I correct, shaking his hand. “Here’s the best way to reach me.”

He nods and takes the slip of paper with the frequency to my wrist strap. I smile, return the nod, and feel a little of the tension drain out of me as I leave.

_Okay,_ I murmur, checking in with everybody.  _Possible alliance with UNIT, potential backing by the Queen which should offer us some protection from Torchwood. Not a bad outcome. Any other suggestions?_

_Wakanda?_ Donna suggests.  _They might have the technology to help Barnes. Even if they don’t, creating an alliance with them can’t hurt, despite their isolationist tendencies._

_You’re assuming they’ll even let her in the front door,_ Lindsey counters.  _And what_ **_are_ ** _we going to do about Barnes?_

_An emotional trigger might not be enough. Still, Tony, you could have JARVIS scan for similar biometric signatures as the Winter Soldier in the area the Valkyrie supposedly went down,_ I say. My brother hums in acknowledgement, but Fury arrived not too long ago and he’s focused on the SHIELD agent.  _If we have to deprogram Barnes without the aid of Wakanda, we have to take him off-planet or use magic._

_Ugh,_ Tony grumbles. Neither of us are too fond of magic, because it complicates an already complicated world and has no consistent rules and there are too many different systems. At least science all over the universe builds on the same basic concepts. Magic is just insane.

Lindsey snickers at us. He, Stiles, and Nick took to magic without too much trouble. Ianto is more like Tony and I, while Donna and Grant are firmly in the middle.

_Don’t take him to the Council,_ Donna warns.  _Either one, actually. And despite your fondness for Asgardians—_

_Hey,_ I protest halfheartedly.

_—don’t take him there, either,_ she finishes like I hadn’t said anything.

_What about those magic users in—what was it, Nepal?_ Lindsey asks.

_Kamar-taj,_ Donna says.

_Wakanda first,_ I say firmly, back aboard the _Fyrebird_ . Considering the unknown status of Wakanda, calling ahead is probably the better course of action.  _We’ll have to get him a new arm, after all._

_Why?_ Lindsey whines.  _So he can tear your head off through the suit?_

_Your confidence in me is so uplifting,_ I tell him. _ I didn’t mean right away—and who said anything about a vibranium arm?—but seeing as I’m going to remove all the HYDRA tech I can find before I take him anywhere, it’s only fair if I replace the arm eventually. _

_Yeah, guys, disarming him makes perfect sense,_ Tony says with utter seriousness.

Both Lindsey and Donna groan.  _You are not as funny as you think you are,_ Lindsey tells him.

_Don’t you mean punny?_ I ask innocently.

_I’m disowning both of you,_ Donna says flatly.

I just laugh, letting the neural net subside to a pleasant buzz in the back of my mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I went back and fixed a few things, both in this story and in previous ones, because I'm making edits on the fly and don't have a beta to stop me from making a fool of myself. Hence, Bella does not, in fact, tell Loki to call her Arwen; she just goes by Captain.  
> Also, as more characters come back and each universe starts snowballing, this story will get very complicated very quickly. My question for you guys is this: would you prefer alternating chapters within one work, detailing events from other fandoms, or would you prefer each Fyrebird have their own story, accompanied by a timeline so you all aren't hopelessly confused? It won't be necessary quite yet, but it will affect how I handle events in each fandom (W&H, big DW events, etc).


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